


i see what's mine (and take it)

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Choking, Light BDSM, M/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5056186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>boys playing rough is never a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see what's mine (and take it)

**Author's Note:**

> yall know im hungry for sub michael lately, and this is just another exercise in that useless pursuit. title taken from [the emperor's new clothes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qFF2v8VsaA), which i listened to on repeat while i wrote this.

Trevor hates the holidays. 

And while it would make perfect sense for him to feel this way because of his family, who are rotten and terrible and make any sort of gathering ugly, or because of his lifestyle that so painfully reminds him that he is not Normal like the rest of the world, he cannot afford simple love, let alone fawning children, or because he was born in cold and raised in cold and he’s tired of it, exhausted of chill and ice and sparkling light on frozen ground, but it’s not because of any of that, though certainly none of it helps.

Mostly, it’s because of Michael. Specifically, it’s because ever since his children (who are unblemished by this vast and burning hatred of holidays and Amanda and even Michael himself) were born, he takes off from Thanksgiving to New Years to be with them, and even then, he’s only around for a month or two before heading off for a long Valentine’s Day break. And yes, it’s true that a lot of the time Trevor can’t stand to be around Michael (for a lot of reasons, though all of them boil down to the same truth: Michael lights Trevor up, and if it’s a pleasant glow or a ferocious smolder or an insatiable blaze is unpredictable in advance) it’s also true that he can’t stand to be away from him.

And to be away from him for a third of the year, no less, is a lot. Trevor tells Lester (and the walls, and the mattress, and strangers on the street) that it’s not that he’s _in love_ with Michael, well, okay, it’s sort of that, but that’s not the _point_ , that’s a totally different thing, a totally separate feeling, it’s that he needs someone to bounce off of, and Lester is no fun and Brad is fun in the wrong ways and Lester’s panties get wadded up when Trevor makes new friends, so damn it, he’ll be a little fucking snippy if he damn well pleases. 

So when Michael finally, finally, finally returns, Trevor can’t keep his eyes off him.

Michael isn’t angry--that much, Trevor knows. He’s too familiar with the blanket of ice left behind by Michael’s freezing rage to not recognize it, and this is not it. When Michael blizzards, he goes still and cool. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but curls into himself and seethes, lets it all pile up and freeze the doors shut until something thaws him, leaving him sloshing and mildewed, sour in the air but dangerous no more. 

This is something else entirely. Michael is antsy, drumming the table or tapping his foot or toying with his watch. He’s quick to passion but quick to a short pout when Lester denies him a night full of hookers and blow, considering it’s his first night back and they’re running short on cash, what with it having been a few weeks since their last small job without Michael. He’s thrumming. Overflowing, really. 

Which Trevor is used to, too. In the ever waging war between he and Amanda, he can take solace in the truth that he is a lightning rod in a way she can never be: Michael could never pour that buzzing, crackling, popping energy into his wife. She’s not a strong enough conductor. Trevor can channel it, can use it keep his power going. He can let the excess run into the dirt. It’s a skill that he seems born into, or not even--rather, it’s Michael that he was born into, and this skill is tailored to him. Either way, Michael is brimming with the leftover parts of boredom, and he needs an outlet. Trevor trades slow, toothy smiles with him and plays footsie under the table. This will be his Christmas Gift. 

When they slip away at last, Michael is still fluttering. Trevor lets him spark, at first only watching him as Michael shuts the door to Trevor’s hole of a room, as he coils and tightens, ready and waiting to pounce, but Trevor wants to drink up all of Michael tonight. It’s rare he gets to do this, now that Michael isn’t all his own anymore. He wants more than Michael’s mouth or his dick; he wants Michael’s fight and Michael’s laugh and Michael’s kiss.

So Trevor shoves him. It’s light, and he’s smiling, and Michael is smiling too and making some quip about oh, is that how it is, you son of a bitch? and then they’re pushing each other and laughing and Trevor punches Michael’s arm and Michael punches back, and then they’re laughing louder and stumbling around, butting shoulders and heads and tussling in the playful, relaxed ways boys like them have for centuries. The room is so full of testosterone it might explode. But that’s kinda their thing, isn’t it? Being young and dumb and full of posturing, swaggering bravado. The very thought makes Trevor laugh.

Michael takes the moment to grab Trevor around the waist. It could have been something tender, something beautiful and romantic if this was another life and they were different people. Instead, it makes his blood woosh in his ears when Michael’s strong, thick arms lift him and throw him to the floor, Michael’s own sweet, low laugh filing his ears as he covers him with his stocky quarterback’s body, gleaming teeth bared in a threat as much as in an offer of peace.

The room stills and settles, creaking in the winter wind. The stars twinkle and know nothing of the young men lying chest to chest down on the earth, staring at each other with soft smiles that used to mean everything and have now lost the depth of their color like signs bleached from sitting too long in the sun. Michael’s hands are on either side of Trevor’s skull, boxing him in and trapping him on the ground. Michael begins to lean in, to lower his mouth to Trevor’s, but Trevor rolls hard to the side, knocking Michael’s arm quickly enough to make him swear and drop to the floor, giving Trevor the time to climb on top of him, instead. 

“No, dumbshit, I’m in charge.” Trevor says, pinning Michael with a grin that he means to be teasing and flirty. And if he were anyone else, and if Michael were anyone else, maybe he would have missed it, but Trevor is so tuned to Michael, so wired into him that he notices the tiny, sharp intake of breath, the slight color in his cheeks when Trevor declares himself the victor. His hand slides from the floor to Michael’s neck, where it rests, light and unthreatening. Michael’s lashes flutter. Oh. 

This is. Unprecedented. To say the least. Michael has a control issue, after all. Sure, Trevor fantasizes about what it would be like to tie him up, to hold him down, to make him gag or moan or both, but that just isn’t how this arrangement works. Trevor loves Michael. Michael fucks Trevor. The end. So Trevor has never really bothered to try and flip the script, because why ruin his chance to get off, and anyways, it’s not like he doesn’t _love_ getting fucked, so who cares? His opportunities to fuck Michael are rare enough anyways without him getting uppity, too. 

But now he’s straddling Michael on the floor of his room and there’s no question about the hard on, hot and thick against his ass through his thin sweatpants and Michael’s rough jeans and his hand on Michael’s throat. Neither of them say anything, gazing at each other for a long spellbound moment. Trevor flexes his hand. A muscle in Michael’s jaw twitches. Michael starts to wiggle, to try and buck him off, but Trevor is pressing his fingers into one side of Michael’s neck, cutting off the blood heading to his brain and Michael’s mouth drops open and he exhales like he’s been punched and jerks his hips up and, oh, oh yes, Trevor can get used to this.

“Really, cowboy?” He teases. Michael glares at him. “You’re so cliche. Jesus Christ. You’re just another macho asshole with a secret desire to be choked. How boring.” Trevor can’t keep the shit-eating grin off his face that he knows makes Michael want to sock him one good. Michael bares his teeth in something approximating a smile but that clearly is a threat, though his eyes sparkle with something between danger and hunger. 

“Fuck you, T.” He spits. Trevor snorts a laugh. Michael’s pupils are shot wide with pleasure, even as Trevor tightens his grip. Another beat passes with them still, both tense in every one of their muscles, toeing the line in this new territory. At last, Michael twists his head and gets out of Trevor’s grip, taking advantage of the quiet to grab Trevor’s hips and flip their bodies, pressing Trevor against the scratchy carpet with a hummed noise of satisfaction. 

Michael pins him and Trevor feels fire lick his inner thighs. He’s thrashing and snarling and Michael is pressing down on him, snarling right back and grinding against him and yes, Michael is wider, is weightier, but Trevor is quick and he’s all muscle and he’s able to smash into Michael and flip them so that he’s the one on top. Michael glares up at him with bright, alert eyes and he’s fearless, he’s illuminating, and Trevor leans down to bite his mouth and his jaw and his neck, and then their teeth are smashing together and Michael is swinging them again, breaking out of the kiss to wrap a hand in Trevor’s long hair and yank, exposing his neck to Michael’s unrelenting onslaught of bites. 

Trevor groans and rocks into him, momentarily distracted by the pleasure of Michael’s weight, solid and real on him, his teeth, so sharp and powerful digging into his flesh. It’s been something he’s missed. But he can have a one track mind when he needs to, and he can’t stop thinking about the tiny hitch of Michael’s breath when he put his hand on his throat. He wants that noise again. He wants that power again. 

Trevor grips Michael’s ass and grinds up into him, disguising it as a need for friction and using Michael’s grind in return to throw him off balance, lifting and meeting him at an odd angle that sets Michael off his knees and onto the floor, with Trevor quick as a shot behind him and covering his form, hands going to Michael’s wrists to pin them over his head. Michael growls. 

“Cut it out.” Michael snaps. Trevor shoots a glare at him.

“ _You_ cut it out.” He says. Michael rolls his eyes. He goes to sit up, to move his hands from Trevor’s grip, maybe because he really thinks he’s stronger than Trevor, but probably because he knows Trevor well enough to know that Trevor couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t keep him somewhere he didn’t want to be if it pained him. 

But Trevor knows it’s an act. It’s an attempt to preserve his machismo; to deny the flash of animal pleasure Michael took in being conquered. Trevor saw. He will see again. So he doesn’t yield an inch when Michael tries to move them. He holds fast and leans in again, and Michael channels that aggression into their mouths crashing together, catching Trevor’s bottom lip and biting down hard enough to draw blood. Trevor hisses into Michael’s mouth and Michael hums back, and Trevor is grinding down against him and Michael is still as hard as he was before. 

Trevor shoves a hand down the front of Michael’s pants and grips him, thrilled to his very bones by the answering throb of Michael’s warm flesh, breathing hard and fast now that they’re digging into the meat of things. Trevor leans in, inhaling the scent of Michael, his face buried in Michael’s shirt like a comforting blanket, letting the scent of cigarettes and sweat and something that is purely Michael wash over him, and, God, his hands ache with missing him. 

But he’s here now. Trevor sits back on his heels and pulls his hand out of Michael’s underwear, moving instead to take off his shirt, first, and then to grab Michael by the front of his and drag him up, up, until they’re both standing. Trevor pushes Michael’s shirt off, too, and they’re kissing again, a little slower but just as needful, just as violent, and Michael seems to think he’s regained control of the situation and reaches for Trevor’s waistband, but Trevor has other ideas. 

He walks them both back until Michael is pressed again the edge of the bed and then Trevor is grabbing his hip and twirling him, kicking his ankle and pushing him so that he’s bent over the mattress with a grunt from Michael and a soft mewl of pleasure from Trevor at the sight alone. 

He expects some protest, or at least some shitty sarcastic quip, but none comes. The room is full of the sound of their breathing, of their hearts beating, and then it’s filled with the sound of Trevor kicking his sweats off and undoing Michael’s belt and grinding his bare dick against the tight cloth of Michael’s boxer brief-covered ass. Michael inhales hard, again, and Trevor noses at his hairline, breathing in deep, deep, deep. The room is warm and they’re both shining with the beginning of a real sweat, but the removal of some layers is helpful and judging by the tiny squeak Michael makes when Trevor moves away from him to get lube is any indication, Michael is just as ready to get this show on the road as he is.

Michael has always been fucking prissy. This is a rare treat, Trevor knows, and far, far rarer that Michael would allow this to go this far, this experiment in trust and vulnerability, and Trevor knows that. Ultimately, even with this wild thing gnawing at his insides, he can’t bring himself to hurt him, so he dips his fingers in greasy, thick vaseline and fucks into Michael slowly, scissors him open even as Michael growls and bucks like a dying, seizing snake, his teeth bared and his eyes squeezed shut, but his eyelids fluttering with restless movement even in that blackness where they’re hidden. 

Trevor runs a hand up the flat of Michael’s bare, arched back and brushes knuckles over the back of his neck, soothing and threatening all at once. Michael pushes into the contact, inadvertently pushing into Trevor’s hips, too. But Trevor has won the right to be in control, right now. He removes his hand from the nape of Michael’s neck, rips his eyes from where thick black hair meets skin creamy pale from lack of sun and drags it down to his firm, heavy hips. He plants the heels of his palms over the dimples he doubts anyone else has ever seen (he could cry--and maybe has cried--over that very thought, that no one else has seen the dimples in the small of Michael’s back because they’re only there when he’s arched on all fours, waiting for Trevor to fuck him in half) and presses hard, forcing Michael down and against the mattress, leaning his full weight into his first true, deep thrust.

Michael moans like it’s been torn out of him. Trevor shudders, feeling somehow homesick for something and someplace that has never existed, some place where that bone-deep noise is not so foreign to him, some place where the heat of Michael’s bare skin on his isn’t such a rare creature, but that place is not worth dwelling on when he has the real Michael split open under him, held in place with his own broad hands, finally letting himself groan and gasp and curse like a long-cracking floodgate has opened. 

Trevor takes his time. He pumps into Michael with long, deep strokes, occasionally kicking Michael’s legs a little wider or pushing him a little harder into the mattress to be rewarded with a pathetic whimper of pleasure from his normally so stoic companion. They’re both really sweating, now, Michael’s back is slick with it and Trevor can feel it rolling down his arms, half from the heat and half from the exertion of sliding their bodies together at just the right angle to drag that rattling moan from Michael again and again. 

Usually his orgasms are a fierce thing that thunder towards him and send electricity down his spine, but this once comes slow and strong, like rolling waves. His toes curl and he runs a hand down Michael’s spine and only has a moment to breath his name, to mouth a prayer before it seizes him, lazy and long and devastating in it’s reach and power. 

He stills only for a moment to catch his wits before he’s pulling out and easing Michael over onto his back, pushing him farther up the bed so he can kneel and sink his mouth over Michael’s drooling erection, humming and sucking with the quick efficiency of someone past teasing as his fingers go to replace his dick, curved perfectly to press against the secret, sacred place that makes Michael tremble and say his name and grip his hair like he’s dying. Trevor scissors his fingers and feels his own come moving inside of Michael and his cock twitches with delayed interest, but he doesn’t have long enough to focus on the eroticism of finger fucking Michael’s dripping, twitching body before Michael is gritting his name out through clenched teeth and coming hot streaks down his throat. 

Trevor swallows easily, too long practiced in the art to let any past his lips and sits back, running his hands in his hair and by extension covering his bangs in lube and come. At least his hair is out of his face. 

Michael’s still gasping, eyes shut against a streak of moonlight that runs perfectly over his face and shoulders, reflecting his sweat-soaked skin in a strange, sparkling way that makes Trevor want to lick every inch of him. After a moment more, Michael cracks an eye and rewards Trevor with a lopsided grin and an extended hand.

“I missed you, y’know.” Michael says offhandedly. Trevor snorts and says he’s getting old and sentimental. Michael agrees. 

Trevor doesn’t mention that he missed him, too.


End file.
